


Sick Day

by Hannahbette



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:41:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9632054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannahbette/pseuds/Hannahbette
Summary: Ford takes care of his ill partner





	

[9:20 AM]

“Well, I’m not sure how exactly,” Ford announced, eyeing the thermometer, “but you seemed to have contracted a case of pyrexia.”

Setting the glass instrument on his nightstand, he turned around to sit at his sickly coworker’s bedside. He tenderly pressed the back of his hand to the man’s burning forehead and sighed. 100 degrees. Could be worse.

A low groan rumbled at the back of Fiddleford’s throat. “Why can’t you jus’ tell me I have a fever like a normal person?” he asked, closing his eyes.

Ford quickly removed his hand and smirked down at him before patting his leg, covered by the thick comforter. 

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay in bed for the next week or so, buddy,” he said. “…But rest assured! Your paycheck will be unaffected! Think of this as a sort of paid leave.”

Fiddleford opened his eyes to shoot him a look, but didn’t bother arguing. The mattress springs squeaked as Ford hopped up. 

“I’m going out. You need anything from the market?”

The blonde flopped over on his side, directing his body towards the window parallel to the bed. 

“I dunno. I guess some soup would be nice,” he mumbled, pulling the covers over his shoulders.

“Gotcha! Oh, and Fiddleford: do me a solid and don’t touch my journals while I’m gone. One of us has to remain germ-free, you know!” Ford exclaimed, jingling around the car keys in his coat pocket. Fiddleford responded with something unintelligible and descending more into the comfort of the guestroom bed.

[3:37 PM]

Ford opened and closed the door with caution, baring a nearly full paper bag in his arm.

“Okay, I know you’re probably wondering what took me so long, but I have a reason,” Ford started, dumping the bag’s contents onto the empty side of the bed. “There I was, walking outside, when I heard a peculiar voice speak to me. And, lo and behold, I had accidentally stepped on a sentient squash with a face and human emotions! It started- Fiddleford, are you even listening to me?“

Fiddleford remained tucked underneath layers and layers of blankets, shivering. His face appeared to be a lot paler and shiny with sweat; aiming his half-lidded gaze up at the ceiling.

Stanford felt his forehead again and almost recoiled from the heat radiating off his skin.

“You’re burning up,” he commented before scavenging the nightstand for the thermometer.

“I know, ’s been so cold in here for a while now,” Fiddleford muttered absentmindedly. Ford shoved the stick into his mouth, carefully observing the mercury from inside steadily rise.

“Wah djaaa geh ah meh?” his assistant attempted to ask with the thermometer jabbed under his tongue. He adjusted the tool.

“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” he told him. “Besides, you have to stay quiet so this piece of junk can get your temperature.“ 

Fiddleford answered with a compliant hum before Stanford slid the thermometer out of his mouth. He slapped his forehead as he read the results.

“Sweet Moses,” Ford cried out. “105 degrees?! How did it raise so quickly?”

“I… I was gonna say, ‘whatja get for me?’ and now ’m saying it,” Fiddleford practically slurred out. 

“Oh. Oh! Yes,” the author said, spreading out his groceries on the surface of the patterned comforter. He handed each item to Fiddleford as he watched on, tiredly. 

“Okay, so I did not get you soup- sort of forgot, that’s my bad- but I did manage to get you some cough syrup! For your sore throat! And uh, half of a Pitt Soda, y’know you’re supposed to drink liquids and all, and…” 

Digging a VHS box out of the pile, he raised it; the tape joggling against the insides. 

“Fiddler on the Roof! No damn clue what it is, but it had your name written all over it. Literally. And I thought it must be boring sitting around being contagious all day. So maybe we can watch it sometime.” 

Fiddleford pushed himself up with his elbows, using the back wall as support. He took the VHS from his partner and thumbed the edges, a wry smile touching his lips. 

“Y’ went to so much trouble,” he remarked, easing the movie against his chest. 

“Not really… I mean, I did spend about 2 and a half hours interviewing various squash people,” he explained, taking a seat on the side of the bed. “But I think I should be getting you some of that medicine now.” 

Opening the bottle with a loud pop, he briefly concentrated on the portion directions tacked to the side- when he felt two arms wrap firmly around his midsection. 

“Erybody from town outta be jealous they don’ have a boyfriend as good as you. They… None of them will eva love anyone else the way I love you,” Fiddleford garbled from behind him. Ford held his breath momentarily, thinking of how to reply. But Fiddleford had already beat him to talking once more. 

“I love ya so much… I wan’ to show you off to eryone I know,“ he cooed, nestling his face on the small of Stan’s back. Stanford virtually melted at the gesture. 

“You’re just saying that because you’re exhausted and sick as a dog,” Ford asserted, somewhat shakily pouring the syrup out into a small plastic cup.

“No: nononono. I really do love you, Stanford. I prolly don’ say it as much as I should,“ he whimpered, tightening his grasp around him. 

Ford toyed with the transparent wrapping that had been ripped off of the medicine bottle for a second before reluctantly squirming out of his friend’s grasp. 

“I’m flattered. Really, I am,” he confessed. Fiddleford unenthusiastically returned to his spot on the bed, throwing the layer of blankets back over him. “But you’re sick, you need to have at least some treatment for it.”

He handed the tiny cup over to him, sloshing around its’ gross red liquid. “Drink up. I’m going to get something to help lower your temperature or something-”

“Can’t you tell me more about them vegetables with human limbs or whatever?” Fiddleford interrupted, hurriedly leaning forward. His employer stopped in his tracks, peering over at him.

“You really want to hear me talk about it?” Stanford questioned, delight brimming his tone.

A nod followed, then Fiddleford proceeded to gulp down the cherry-flavored syrup.

[4:49 PM]

“…and then they just banned me from the premises. But I got so much documentation from one-on-one interviews in the journals! Two whole pages, can you believe it?”

Ford had been laying down on the cluttered side of the guest bed, perched on top of the wooly comforter. His partner snuggled up next to him; breathing lightly.

“Hey, you wanna see the picture I drew of one of them? I haven’t inked it yet, but the sketch is still pretty easy to see…”

Fiddleford buried his face into Ford’s sweater vest, clenching his right arm harder.

“Don’t leave me here,” he whined against the soft material of his clothes. Stanford chuckled, running a hand through his assistant’s hair.

“How come it takes you being on the brink of deathly ill to be so affectionate?“ he asked. “I’ll only be gone for a minute or two.” But Fiddleford refused to budge.

“I love you, I don’ want ‘chu to die! There’s all them angry gourds out there.” His words were somewhat muddled. Ford rolled his eyes, allowing the slightest of smiles to show through in his expression. He figured that protesting would only make him latch on more.

“…Alright,” Ford stated, settling back down again.

“I’ll stay here. But if I wake up with a sore throat tomorrow, you’re fired.”


End file.
